Missing
by DearNickolas
Summary: Kurt tries to find that missing puzzle piece; Finn tries to explain that it's sitting right in front of him.
1. Chapter 1

"This beef wasn't cooked enough."

Kurt feels exhaustion seeping through his moisturized skin. He feels the dark circles forming under his eyes, feel the ache in his muscles, the weakness in his knees. He knows he smells like French fries and beer. He's in desperate need of a haircut; he has to push his dirty blonde hair out of his eyes. He's been working for twelve straight hours and his feet feel like they're about to fall off.

But the pot-bellied, disgustingly dressed forty year old is shoving an empty plate in his face, complaining about the food he'd served.

"Kid. Kid, this beef wasn't cooked enough."

Kurt swallows. "Sir, you ate _all _of it."

"What are you trying to say?"

"It's just…You ate all of it."

The costumer raises an eyebrow, the pudgy hand that rested carefully on the table curling into a less than threatening fist. Kurt takes the plate from the opposite paw, careful to avoid any type of contact.

"Kid, that food was not satisfactory. I'd better get a discount, and you can forget about a tip. Understand me?"

Kurt can feel the exhausted taking over him. He can feel words, angry words, build up in his throat.

Because he's pretty sure that he's been nothing but kind, and considerate, and friendly to his costumer.

It takes everything,_ everything, _in him to choke them down again.

"Yessir. Your check will be right out."

In the end, he makes a hundred dollars in tips. After a sixteen hour shift.

Kurt puts his head in his hands and pushes his elbows deeper into the oak bar. He swears he could fall asleep, then and there, but the itchy cotton of his mandatory vest reminds him that he needs to get home. Home to his comfortable California king that doesn't care if its beef was undercooked and didn't ask for fifty different refills.

Kurt sighs when he realizes that his bed was the one thing in his life that was constant. The one thing that would never let him down, never would walk away, never would ask for an extra pickle on its sandwich. Kurt sighs when he realizes that his bed is the one thing in his life that he's proud of. He's not proud of working in the uppity, over priced restaurant. He's not proud of never making it in show business. He's not proud of how his clothes line, drawn and colored and measured to perfection, his barely being considered at all. He's not proud of the fact that in the last five years, ever since he left Lima for something bigger, he's had exactly two boyfriends – both relationships destroyed and ended by him - and a countless amount of sleazy hook-ups.

Kurt Hummel is not proud of himself.

And he's very ashamed.

* * *

><p>"Kurt."<p>

There's a hand on his back, rubbing smooth circles between his shoulder blades.

"Jesus, dude, did you sleep here?"

There's something familiar about the voice, about the roughness of the fingers that touch his face, smoothing his hair out of his eyes. He can feel the coolness of the oak bar pressing into his cheek. Indistinctly, he can hear Manny, the bartender, say softly, "He crashed after a double shift. He looked so exhausted and peaceful, and I'm here all night anyway…I just let him sleep."

The circles being pressed into his back quicken. "He looks awful."

Kurt draws his eyebrows together and snorts. "Thanks."

"Kurt?"

He peels one eye open and peers into the bright, hamburger and vodka smelling world. When he lifts his head off the bar, his cheek sticks.

Rubbing the red spot that had surely been left behind, he swings around on his barstool – successfully knocking the hand away from his back – and faces his arouser.

Warm, chocolate eyes.

Broad shoulders.

Short hair that stuck up, just a little, in the front.

A large, dopey grin that invaded Kurt's pubescent dreams on multiple occasions.

When Finn Hudson reaches out and pulls him into a bone crushing hug, all Kurt can do is blink.

Because the last time Kurt had seen Finn, he'd given Kurt the saddest, most confused look Kurt had ever seen in his life.

Because the last time Kurt had seen Finn, they kissed.

He guessed it had been inevitable, really.

With Finn living in his house, with their close proximity, his bedroom eyes and sweet words, and Kurt's abiding crush, it was really unavoidable.

If Kurt was being honest with himself, he had seen it coming from a mile away.

It happened one night, a month or two after graduation and a week or so after Blaine had ended things. The Glee Club had gathered, one last time, to enjoy each others company before they all went their separate ways. In hindsight, providing Kurt with alcohol a week after his first break up was probably not the best idea. Although, Kurt being Kurt, neither Finn, nor Rachel, nor even Mercedes would have guessed that he'd down four beers and three tequila shots before Puckerman had even finished his first scotch.

"Kurt, buddy, that's a lot of alcohol." Finn had said, wrapping a protective arm around Kurt's waist as he tried to surge forward, laughing hysterically as Mercedes tipped a margarita on Sam's blonde head.

"_Kurt."_

Kurt remembers something in Finn's voice, the softness, the tenderness, that made him look up, hazy through a thick curtain of alcohol. He remembers something in Finn's eyes, a spark, that made him stare, made him wonder. He remembers an ache in his chest, a hole torn out by Blaine's harsh and blunt dump. He remembers desperately wanting to fill it.

"Let's go home."

Kurt had wrapped his arms around Finn's neck and buried his nose into the crook of his collar bone, breathing in the warmth and quintessential smell of just _Finn. _Finn had swooped and grabbed him under the knees, picking him up in an instant, and carrying him ever so carefully to the car.

It was when they got home, when Finn took Kurt's head in his hands and smoothed away a stray piece of hair that it happened.

Kurt isn't sure why, exactly, Finn was so close. Maybe he was concerned, for some reason, that Kurt had fallen asleep. Or maybe he was checking his pupils for drug dilation, or maybe he was just worried.

But with Finn's lips so close, so inviting, so perfect, Kurt really couldn't help himself.

The kiss was sloppy and unsure. Their lips, tasting like alcohol, lingered together, moving ever so lightly into each other.

When Kurt pulled away, he looked into Finn's face for some type of recognition. He searched for panic, for disgust, for anything.

But all he found was a wide, dopey smile.

So he leaned his thin body into Finn's, pressing the taller boy into the wall, and crashed his mouth back down onto Finn's perfect lips.

This time, though, Finn was kissing back. This time, Kurt's fingers were in Finn's hair. This time, Finn was dragging his tongue across Kurt's bottom lip. This time, Kurt was opening his mouth, allowing much desired access to the warmth of his tongue. This time, Finn's hands were slipping into Kurt's back pockets and lifting, forcing the smaller boy to wrap his legs around Finn's built waist and ramming their bodies together for shiver-inducing friction.

This time, they were _moaning_.

Positively _mewling_, gasping, groaning.

"_Kurt."_

He remembers being shocked. Shocked at hearing his name spoken against his own lips. Shocked to hear it spoken so _tenderly_. There was a thickness in Finn's voice, a passion that scared Kurt out of his mind.

So he wriggled out of Finn's arms.

He let his feet drop to the floor and took a few steps back, chest heaving, pupils blown.

Finn had stayed put, shoulder blades against the hard wall.

And there was that expression.

That hurt, confused, sad look.

Kurt had left for New York three days later.

* * *

><p>"Finn."<p>

He can't breathe. There's tightness in his chest that can't be denied. His body is burning from the memory of Finn so close, so warm, so indescribably _perfect_.

"Yes, Finn. Me. What's up?"

"_What's up? What's UP? _Finn Hudson, you show up at my door after three years and all you can say is _what's up?"_

"Technically I showed up at your work, which is different than showing up at your -"

"You are the thickest, most irritatingly insane person I've ever met in my life!"

His voice has reached a frightening octave; Finn simultaneously glances around self-consciously and shoves his hands into his pockets. His chocolate eyes land on Manny, seeking help. The bartender holds up both of his hands as if surrendering and mumbles, "You guys should work this out."

"I missed you. You know…I missed my friend." Finn's puppy dog eyes are forcing him to look away. They're so brown and large; Kurt busies himself with receipt notes that were still in his apron. He can smell the soft, unmistakable Chanel Le Bleu that wafted from Finn's American Eagle sweatshirt.

"Kurt, you should go home." Manny reaches over the bar and hands him a stack of ones. Kurt knows they all aren't really _his_ tips; he knows Manny's thrown a few dollars of his own into the awfully small pile.

Suddenly, he's just too exhausted to deal with anything.

"Come on, Finn."

His apartment is small.

There's a kitchen, and a couch, and a very small bedroom with a queen squeezed into the very corner.

Finn's chocolate eyes sweep across the poster covered walls of the living room, the dishes in the sink, the slightly fuzzy television, perpetually tuned onto the CW. He lets his bag fall onto the dusty carpet and Kurt swears he sighs a little.

Sighs in that content, comfortable way that he only used when he was _home_.

Kurt leans against the door frame, eyes trained on Finn's broad shoulders. "You can sleep on the couch."

When he turns around and crosses his arms across his chest, Kurt swears his heart jumps into his throat. His eyes are soft and there's a crooked smile written across his lips. "Okay. You should get some rest, Kurt. You look exhausted."

"There are blankets in the closet." Kurt points toward the porcelain doorknob that's protruding from the wall near Finn's hip. "Good night, Finn."

It's when he's lying in his wonderful California King, his dependable confidant, that Finn's heavy feet creep across the floor.

It's when he's half asleep that Finn's arms, warm, wrapped carefully around him, holding him tight.

It's when he sighs quietly, content, that Finn presses the smallest of kisses into the top of his collar bone.

It's when Finn intertwined their legs that he finally falls asleep.

* * *

><p>It's morning when things get awkward.<p>

Because, _Jesus_, Kurt's curled into Finn's side, his cheek pressed into the Frankenteen's bare chest.

He peels his cheek away and very carefully picks himself out his bed; the mattress groans, but only Finn turns over.

Kurt runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

Because Finn looks like he's _supposed _to be there, wrapped in Kurt's 700 thread count sheets, breathing into his matching pillow cases.

And suddenly, he's fighting the urge to cry.

Because it's like his bed was _incomplete _without him lying there.

Like his apartment was _deficient _without Finn tromping around it, tripping over his big feet.

Like _he_, Kurt Hummel, was lacking without falling asleep to the smallest of kisses being pressed into his collar bone.

Suddenly, he realizes what he's been missing.

And suddenly, he _really _didn't want to realize it anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

**So. If you've made it to chapter two, you've made it to a thickened plot line. I suggest you read it all, all the way to the bottom.**

**Thank you for your wonderful, motivating reviews. Leave me another! Or a new one, if you haven't yet.**

**They are soo helpful.**

**Love,**

**DearNickolas**

* * *

><p>Finn wakes up alone.<p>

Alone, and smelling undeniably like Kurt.

The smell of the pillow under his nose makes him smile. The softness of the sheets makes him sigh. He wishes, suddenly, that he'd never have to get out of this bed.

He stretches, feeling tenseness in his muscles that were a result of Kurt's crappy mattress.

He realizes how un-Kurt like it is to have a crappy mattress.

When he turns over, he lets his eyes scan the room.

The posters – all of designers or bands that Finn didn't recognize – nearly covered the whitewash walls. There's a closet with for too little clothes in it. There's a vanity with too few products on it. Finn's eyebrows pull together.

Something was so off about this place.

Something so _not Kurt._

He wondered if somewhere along the way, on the hard, always under construction road to success, Kurt had left little pieces of himself along the way.

He peels himself away from the sheets and troops quietly – or as quietly as Kurt's creaky floor will allow him to troop – and meets a dark pair of marine eyes.

He's sitting on the counter, a mug of coffee clasped tightly in both hands, like he was holding on to it for dear life.

Finn thinks he looks tired.

Tired and almost…_old. _Beyond his years.

He was too young to look like that.

But despite it all, despite the thick bags under his eyes, despite the sighing way he breathed, Finn still thinks he's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Finn watches Kurt's eyes flicker down his bare chest and feels ashamed, suddenly.

Because who was he to be running around Kurt's apartment without proper clothes on?

He reaches across Kurt's lap and snatches his sweater, which he unceremoniously chucked there the night before, and pulls it down over his skin. When he looks back at Kurt, the counter tenor's eyes are glued to the brown contents of his mug.

"So." Finn loops his finger around the handle of Kurt's mug and takes a long sip from it. He knows Kurt won't care. They used to share things all the time. "What are we going to do today?"

Kurt holds up a hand when Finn tries to push the mug back into his fingers. "_I _have to work. _You _can do whatever you want. I don't know why you're here, or why you'd _want _to be here…But I have a busy life. I do things. I don't have time for – "

"For me?"

Kurt's eyebrows scrunch up in frustration. "For _distractions_, Finn."

"Honestly, Kurt, you look like you could use a distraction."

There's a pause in the conversation; Kurt's turquoise eyes search his face before he looks down at the grungy tiles on the floor and shakes his head. "What I _need _is a shower. I _need _to get to work. I _need _you to…"

"Leave?" Finn offers, taking another gulp of coffee rather than allowing a heavy frown to grace his lips. "You know, Kurt, you told me you'd always let me stay with you. You said you'd always let me visit. You said I'd always be your friend."

"I also said I was going to live in a penthouse and be famous." Kurt looks sad. "So much has changed, Finn. So much that I don't know how to _be _around you anymore. I don't know how to deal with you anymore. I don't know how to deal with _myself _anymore."

Finn dumps the rest of the coffee in the sink and, without waiting for Kurt to react or give him permission or even register what he's doing, reaches out to hold his face gently in both of Finn's large palms. They're so close now that Finn can smell the coffee on Kurt's tongue, feel the warmth of his body, see the glassiness in his eyes.

"Kurt."

He tries to move out of Finn's hands, but somehow, his fingers just end up resting on Finn's built waist instead.

"If it's the last thing I do, I swear, I'm going to find you again."

So Kurt calls in to work and feigns the flu. They bundle up in scarves and heavy coats and hit the streets of New York, walking in unison as Finn prods carefully into Kurt's mysterious personal life. It feels like old times, almost, with Kurt's little exasperated smile and Finn's oblivious digging. There's a moment when Finn reaches out and clasps Kurt's small, thin hand in his own, squeezing their gloved fingers together.

"What happened to Broadway?" He has the guts to ask, finally, as Kurt takes his arm and leads him expertly into Central Park.

There's a silence while Kurt seems to roll the question around on his tongue. After a moment, he says quietly, "It just wasn't reality after awhile."

And it makes sense, abruptly. Finn nods.

"So…what now? You can't honestly tell me you're satisfied with being a waiter for the rest of your life." He knows Kurt better. _Kurt_ knows better.

The smaller man shrugs one shoulder, a half-hearted gesture under his thrift shop jacket. Finn halts their progress down the street to wrap his arms tightly around the countertenor, to pull him close and feel the softness of his hair against Finn's five o'clock shadow. Finn just wants him to know that no matter what, he'd always be there.

It's there, in that embrace, that Kurt mumbles, "I love singing. I want to sing. I just _can't _seem to figure it out, Finn. I've lost something, something important, and I just can't _find it._"

Finn tells him that they'll figure it out.

Together.

Kurt only gives a tiny, skeptical smile and pulls him along.

Kurt leads him to that famous rock, the one where couples kiss and siblings hold hands while their mother's take pictures.

They stand together, looking at the outline of the city and breathing in the crisp fall air. There's a second where everything is quiet, everything is still, and Finn glances over to see Kurt's eyes closed, his lips twisted into a little smile.

He realizes that he'd do anything to keep that smile on Kurt's face.

He looks away before Kurt's eyes open again.

"Hey, Kurt."

"Yes, Finn?"

"Wanna go shopping?"

* * *

><p>Finn insists.<p>

Really, he does.

Because honestly, who does he ever send money on, other than his mother?

Plus, those blank Chanel skinnies look far too good on Kurt for him to pass them up.

Not that Finn's going to admit that his eyes have been glued to Kurt's ass ever since he put them on.

"…this sweater, Finn?"

He tears his eyes away from those delicious curves to meet Kurt's marine eyes. "Hmm?"

Kurt's arched an eyebrow. "I said, do you want to try on this sweater?"

It's soft and blue and Finn trusts Kurt's sense of fashion much more than his own, so he pulls off his tee shirt in the middle of the men's section (much to Kurt's dismay) and tugs the sweater over his chest.

"What do you think?"

Kurt's cheeks are pink when he stumbles over, "Y-yeah. Mhm. Yes. That…that's a good color on you."

They run around the store and try to find the ugliest article of clothing they can.

Finn wins.

They run around the store and try to find the most beautiful article of clothing they can.

Kurt wins.

"It feels like heaven." Finn runs the scarf between his fingers and, after a moment of hesitation, lifts the fabric to his face. Kurt laughs; Finn realizes it matches his eyes perfectly.

"It's silk, Finn. Of course it does."

"I'm going to get it for you."

"It's $200, Finn. You're not buying that for me." Kurt steals the scarf from his grasp and places it carefully back on its respective shelf.

When Kurt isn't looking, he sandwiches the scarf in between the folds of his new sweater and whispers to the cashier to hide it for him at the register.

Kurt's too busy glancing at his new jeans in a full length mirror to notice anyway.

When they get home, Kurt wraps his arms gently around Finn's waist and presses his cheek into the baritone's broad chest.

Quietly, he whispers a thank you.

"Today was…indescribable."

That's enough for Finn.

For now.

Because when Kurt retires to his room, Finn can't help but feel that tightness in his chest. That painful want, need, _love _that's bottled deep inside him. He wills it away.

He wants to be doing everything he's doing for selfless reasons.

But Finn knows he's desperately in love with Kurt Hummel.

He also knows Kurt Hummel isn't in love with him.

So when he sneaks into Kurt's room again, when he pulls Kurt into him and Kurt fits perfectly into the curve of his body, he tries not to think about waking up alone.

Because once he leaves, that's how it will be.

Because once he leaves, Finn will be so _very _alone.

* * *

><p>Kurt's working when he walks in.<p>

Kurt's smiling for the first time in weeks when he walks in.

Kurt's not thinking of anything but dinner, which Finn promised to have ready the second he got home from the restaurant when he walks in.

Kurt drops his empty tray when he walks in.

Kurt stops smiling when he walks in.

Kurt isn't thinking of dinner anymore when he walks in.

The only word Kurt can say breathlessly is "_Blaine_" when he walks in.

Kurt swears he's going to have a heart attack if random people don't stop turning up at his workplace, unannounced.

His eyes are locked on Blaine's clean shaven face, on his pouty smile, on his clear hazel eyes.

On the hand that's clutching a suitcase.

"Please tell me that you haven't come to visit me."

Blaine's laugh is like a key that unlocks Kurt's brain; repressed memories suddenly surface.

"I'm actually in town for a wedding, but if you'd rather have me here to see you, that can be arranged." His eyes are clear and happy; his smile is contagious. Kurt finds himself grinning. "You look fantastic, Kurt."

His fingers spread against his jeans, the new ones that Finn had purchased. He blushes. "You don't look half bad yourself, Blaine Warbler."

He doesn't. He looks better than good. He looks…_sexy_.

His hair is free from gel, cut short and clean. There's something stronger about him, something more confident, something that makes him seem taller than he really is. His arms are bigger; his chest, wider. His cardigan looks tailored and expensive. Kurt could probably find it at a nearby Burberry. He feels a little ashamed, standing there in his mandatory vest and holding his plastic drink tray…but at the same time, he feels totally comfortable. Like he knows Blaine would never judge him, or make assumptions, or poke fun at his profession.

After a few moments of just _looking, _Kurt realizes that Blaine's beautiful lips are moving.

"…call you and then we can hang out or -"

"Dinner!" Kurt blurts out, unintentionally interrupting Blaine's half-listened to sentence. "Tonight. At my house."

Blaine pauses, possibly considering his busy schedule, and then his lips move into that gorgeous, crooked grin. "Sounds good, Kurt Warbler. Address?"

Kurt rattles it out and Blaine programs his number into Kurt's small Motorola and wraps his strong arms around Kurt's thin form before saying goodbye.

When he does, he presses the smallest of kisses to Kurt's soft cheek, making the skin there burn.

After Blaine is gone, after Kurt regains a regular paced heartbeat, he presses his fingertips to his cheek, as if the kiss were trying to escape and Kurt was desperately trying to hold it there.

* * *

><p><strong>Review for me, please? :)<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

"Finn!" He bursts into the kitchen and flings his coat onto the couch. His apartment smells like pasta sauce and garlic bread. "Finn, Finn, Finn, Finn, Finn -"

"Jesus, _what?" _ Finn emerges from the kitchen like a soldier from a war zone; there's sauce all over the front of his tee shirt and garlic under his fingernails. The breath in his lungs catch there, just for a second; Kurt's hair is blown back, out of his face, and his eyes are wide.

Beautiful.

And he barely pauses to snort at the red sauce on his own "Kiss the Cook" apron before blurting brutally, "Blaine's coming to dinner! In like thirty minutes! So we have to set the table and clean the apartment a little and make sure everything is _perfe_- Oh, god, do we even have wine? I should go get wine. Wine is a must have, Finn, a _must have_ -"

Finn catches his arm as he flies toward the front door and swings him around. His face connects with the hard panels of Finn's chest and it almost hurts. But then Kurt's blinking up at him with those wide eyes and it's hard to focus on anything else.

"Could you please repeat everything you just said? I thought I heard something about _Blaine_, but that would be completely…"

_Heartbreaking._

He pauses, finding something in Kurt's face that makes him rethink his word choice.

"…Unexpected."

"He came to work! On accident, of course: He had no way of knowing I worked there. Unless he stalked me on Facebook. Oh god, Finn, do you think he stalked me on Facebook? Not that it's creepy, it's kind of sweet once you think about it. Unless it's someone creepy, then obviously it would be awkward. But Blaine isn't creepy, he's…He's perf-"

"I need a drink." Finn drops Kurt's face from his hands and slumps toward the kitchen. Kurt is too flustered to notice his disappointment. He doesn't even notice when Finn shoves a thin, white box into his back pocket and covers it with his plaid button up.

"Am I talking too much? Jesus, I'm being ridiculous. It's like we're in high school all over again."

"Because you loved high school so much." Finn mumbles, sticking a hand into one of Kurt's top cabinets and retrieving a bottle of dark rum.

Kurt furrows his brow. "What's your-?"

The doorbell sounds clearly through the living room; Kurt's cheeks flush a dark red and Finn downs two shots in a row.

He swallows, squares his shoulders, and presses his lips into a thin line. "Let's do this."

* * *

><p>Kurt wants to take the bottle away.<p>

He also doesn't want to make a scene.

But Finn's sucking down that dark rum like it's liquid Christmas and Blaine is noticing.

One eye brow is arched into his ungelled, perfect curly hair as he forks another piece of pasta between his perfect lips. It quiet around the table, with the exception of Finn smacking and swallowing loudly across from them.

Kurt clears his throat. "So, you're here for a wedding?"

"Yes!" He's overly enthused; like he's ecstatic that Kurt's thought of something to talk about. "Yes, I am! My cousin, Sabrina, actually. I think you met her once, Kurt, when we went on that San Fran trip."

Kurt's stomach clenches a little.

Because honestly, he'd tried to repress any memory of the San Francisco trip. Not that it had been bad; in actuality, it was fantastic. It just hurt, a little, to miss someone as much as he missed Blaine.

Missed being with Blaine.

"That was a fantastic trip." Blaine says fondly, a little smile lifting the side of his perfect mouth. His eyes are locked onto Kurt's, intense.

The sharp ringing of glass against glass makes Kurt jump in his seat, makes him blush and look away, makes him turn to a swaying Finn, who had previously knocked his bottle of rum into Blaine's wine glass.

"Oops. Sorry." He doesn't look apologetic. In fact, Kurt muses, he looks sour.

Spiteful.

Irritated.

Bitter.

Blaine notices. "So you guys are living together? Are you-?"

He motions at the air between them. Kurt drops his fork.

"No! No, absolutely not. Finn's…Finn's visiting me. Since we haven't talked for…awhile."

Finn snorts. "You didn't talk to me for three years, Kurt. Don't sugar coat it."

"I…I was _busy_, Finn. I had plans. I didn't have time to deal with - "

"We both know that's not the reason."

Finn's eyes are bright. Dangerous. Kurt looks away.

He knows his face has flushed red. He knows Finn's glaring at the side of his head. He knows both of Blaine's eyebrows have disappeared into his curly hair. He just can't bring himself to say the real reason out loud.

Blaine coughs.

Kurt takes a deep breath.

"Anyway."

"How long are you staying, Finn?" Blaine saves him, forking his pasta around in the bowl. The Frankenteen shrugs a sloppy shoulder.

"Until I fix things."

Blaine gives Kurt a look then, a what-the-hell-is-going-on-and-why-is-Finn-drunk look.

That's when Kurt announces that dinner is officially over and Blaine accidentally cuts himself on the bread knife.

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry."<p>

Blaine reaches over a smooths a few fingers over the top of his hand and winces, very slightly, when Kurt presses a Band-Aid into the sizable cut on the Warbler's wrist.

"It's fine."

There's a moment when they look at each other, when they're both wondering why they lost each other, that Blaine leans forward and presses a hot, wonderfully perfect kiss into Kurt's wanting lips.

And suddenly, Kurt's moaning into Blaine's mouth.

Suddenly his chest is pressed hard into Kurt's; suddenly Kurt's back is pressed hard into the bathroom wall.

And now…Now Blaine's hands were clutching his ass, pulling him closer.

Now his tongue was dipping into Kurt's mouth, making him groan.

Now the bathroom smells like Axe and sweat and _man _and it's intoxicating and -

"Whew! I gotta pee soooo bad - Oh, hey, guys."

Now Blaine was jumping away from him.

Now the light was being flicked on.

Now Finn was leaning on the doorframe for support while he swayed, unstable.

"Ooooops. Wow. I totally forgot you guys were in here. I have to wiz, if you know that I mean. What I mean is, I have to piss. Like sooo bad. So could you guys like, get out or something?"

"_Finn!"_

Blaine gives an awkward cough that makes Kurt blush. His new jeans are tight, so much tighter than before Blaine had rocked his hips deliciously into -

"Kurtie. Kurtie, Kurtie, Kurtie." Finn's saying, the mantra narrating his stumbling across the bathroom and launching his thick, muscled body into the countertenor. Kurt can barely stay upright under the weight, but he's stronger than he looks so he gives Blaine a little look of disappointment and pulls Finn into the living room.

"How much of that dark rum did you drink?"

"All of it." Blaine answers snippily, picking up the empty bottle from the coffee table. Finn shoots him a dirty look and falls, face down, into the couch.

"Did _not_."

"Why is it gone then?"

"Because! I spilled some of it on my shirt!"

There is, indeed, a large wet spot on the front of Finn's Adidas tee. Kurt lets out a sigh of relief (because really, half a bottle of rum is just too much for one person to drink alone) and turns, reluctantly, to Blaine.

Before he can say anything, though, Blaine lifts a hand to stop him. "I understand, Kurt."

Kurt wonders if he could be anymore perfect.

It's when Kurt walks him to the door and his hand is on the doorknob when Blaine kisses him again. It's soft and slow and it leaves Kurt breathless. They hug, _and this is not the last time we'll see each other, Kurt Warbler. Me, you…Drinks on Friday…that's not a question_ is whispered into the shell of his ear.

Kurt can only nod.

"Finn." There a little huff of breathe from the corner of the couch in response. "_Finn._"

"Whyaminawtgoodenuf?"

It's mumbled and muffled and Kurt swears Finn's just trying to annoy him now.

"Can you repeat that, please?"

Finn shakes his head and his eyes open. They're huge and brown and Kurt's heart jumps into his throat.

"I love you, Kurt."

"I love you too, Finn. We're best friends."

He can't help himself from running a few fingers through Finn's short hair, from slipping onto the couch beside him and stretching himself out against the leather.

"Mhm. Friends. Great." Finn slurs, leaning toward him, nuzzling his nose into the softness of Kurt's cardigan. "I dunno what you see in that prep anyways."

"He's perfect." Kurt finds himself saying. "He's perfect, Finn. He always has been."

Finn's fingers trace sloppy circles down his stomach. "Why m'I so damn imperfect?"

Kurt's body tenses; the hand in Finn's hair retracts.

"I think we should go to bed, Finn."

"I don't want to go to bed." His fingers dip under Kurt's shirt, pulling it up ever so slightly. The countertenor doesn't think to push him away.

Kurt freezes when he feels lips being pressed tenderly into his bellybutton. "What are – _Guhh."_

Finn's tongue had dipped ever so slightly into his navel; Kurt hadn't even realized there were nerves in there.

Until now.

But now Finn's moving up; his lips are leaving a trail across Kurt's stomach, up his chest, until his tongue flicked against a ni-

"_What are you doing?"_

He wriggles out of Finn's arms and pulls his shirt down, ashamed. He can feel that tightness in his pants again; he wants to cry.

So he hugs himself tightly and marches to his bedroom, locking the door behind him. In the next room, he can hear Finn's drunken mantra of "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry".

It doesn't stop, even after Kurt falls asleep, his pillow and eyelashes wet.

* * *

><p><strong>Review for me, please? :)<strong>


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